


Sound the Bugle

by sleeplesscontinuum



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Charles is angsty like it's 2003~, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplesscontinuum/pseuds/sleeplesscontinuum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a soldier, fighting in a war he couldn't care less about.<br/>He finds an injured man (Erik), who doesn't speak, and takes care of him.<br/>Erik has decided his best chance at survival is just hoping Charles never figures out who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound the Bugle

Charles' boots crunch along the ground, shrapnel scattered around and he knows there's nothing left for anyone, any more. It's over, this place is in ruins and there's not much to be done to save it. There's silence, nothing but the wind curling around him, like fingernails scraping against skin. He sighs, sits down on a small, steep bank of torn-up grass and removes his helmet.  
It's the first time he's heard silence in a while, and he's so used to gunfire and screams that the silence hounds him. There's something uncomfortable about it - as if it's too quiet, and he's left alone with his own thoughts, and far too many horrible memories.  
A quiet moan, barely audible, reaches Charles ears and he jumps to his feet instantly. Everything is a trigger. If Charles hears a noise, his hands go straight for his gun - even if it's not with him, his hands will blindly skim over the place where the gun should be.  
He creeps closer, stealth mode engaged, and peers around a tree. He gasps when he sees a man, covered in blood, lying on his back on the grass. He knows he should instantly help, no questions asked, but a force within him forbids such rash actions.  
'It could be an enemy', the voice in Charles' head warns him, 'Anybody can be an enemy,'  
But Charles blocks out the voice by reasoning that, even if the man were from the enemy side, there's very little the man could do in the damaged state that he's in.  
Charles had once been a compassionate man, too compassionate some might've said, but somewhere along the line - amongst the bodies and war - that changed. Of course, deep down, Charles cared tremendously, but it wasn't among the most valued traits of a trained killer and had been beaten out of him a long time ago.  
But when Charles saw the look in this man's eye, he felt it return. That empathy flood back through his veins, and for a moment he forget where he was, and it felt like home. Back before the war, before everything.  
The man spends a huge deal of energy to reach out to Charles, but even then his hands barely moves an inch. Charles watches as the man's fingers skim the damp ground, his hands caked in blood and mud. There's no sign of a uniform, or anything to indicate where the man is from.  
For a minute or so, Charles just stares with a callous hard-etched expression he's practised for so long that it feels natural now. He tries to intimidate the man, but it seems to futile, with the man being as pathetic and vulnerable as he is. Charles abandons this staring contest, and inches closer to the man.  
"Who are you?" Charles asks, nudging the man with his boot.  
The man whines, but nothing discernible, and Charles studies the man's face. Upon this closer inspection, he realizes the man is probably quite attractive under that mask of blood, dirt and whatever else. This, of course, changes nothing. The man shouldn't be trusted, and Charles should just shoot him, or at least leave him here to die. But something in the man's eyes sparks something in Charles that won't let him leave the wounded man.  
"Name?" Charles prompts, squatting down a safe distance from the man.  
The man struggles to reply, and Charles can't understand the response but decides the man is obviously no real threat to him. Though, he's not sure his fellow soldiers would feel the same way.  
Charles drops his bag by his side and digs out some first aid supplies, though he's quite sure he hasn't got the expertise necessary to help this man. The least he could do is get him cleaned up before sneaking out a medic to help out.  
"This may sting," Charles says, momentarily locking sight with the blue-green eyes of the man.  
His eyes widen, whether in fear or pain, and he begins to twist his torso away from the stinging antiseptic .  
"Shh," Charles hushes softly, "It's going to be okay. It's going to be just fine. Just stay still,"  
The man half-heartedly puts up a fight, but when Charles hushes him for a second time, the man gives up.  
Charles cleans up the wounds as best he can, and the man remains calm for the time being.  
~  
Charles decides to bring the rookie medic, Hank McCoy, along to see the mysterious stranger in the woods. He's aware Hank has always looked up to him, and has a heart of gold. Hank is the kind of guy who joins to the army medics because he genuinely wants to help, not because he wants to be a hero, or because he thinks it'll make him seem tough. He is in it for the right reasons, like Charles used to be, all those years ago.  
"I'm not the most experienced medic here, Sir. You should probably choose one of the older, more-"  
"Nonsense, McCoy,"  
Hank rambles in a nervous, jittery voice as they walk. Charles wonders, is Hank only speaking to fill the silence? That same empty silence that strangles his own thoughts?  
"Sir, could you please inform me where we are going?" Hank finally asks, as Charles begins to slow his pace.  
"I need you to help me," Charles replies, "That is all you need to know. Here. Now be cautious, and don't startle him,"

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't judge me for using a Bryan Adams song as a title. It's only until I actually think of a title. Besides, the lyrics are sort of relevant...kind of.


End file.
